Hot Night in the City

the window. For many years I have lived and worked in Europe, as far away in space, time, and culture from Pearl Street as one can be this side of death. And yet, on those nights when the black butterflies of doubt and remorse flutter through a sleepless nuit blanche, I still sometimes hear that broken-off summons, those two clicks, and the recriminating silence that followed them; and my throat tightens with shame as I remember the lonely old woman that I didn't have time for because I was too busy trying to save myself.

SIR GERVAIS IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST

Know you that in those distant days the good King Arthur did entreat his knights of the Table Round to sally forth in quest of the Holy Grail for the benefit of their souls, the glory of his reign, and the serenity of the court, which would be much enhanced by the absence of those feisty brawlers. But although each of Arthur's doughty warriors was eager to earn Man's acclaim for lofty deeds and God's forgiveness for base ones by devoting himself to the search for this holiest of relics, there was no general haste to fulfill the king's behest because, the shameful truth be known, not one of those noble warriors was certain in his heart of hearts exactly what a grail was... save, of course, that it was a holy thing and the right and proper object of quests. But none durst confess his ignorance for fear of ridicule, and because no other knight ever admitted doubt in this matter, each assumed himself to be alone in his shameful want of learning. Therefore, each would nod and suck his teeth knowingly upon any mention of the Grail, and when he glanced about and saw all his fellows nodding and sucking, his suspicion was confirmed that the nature of a grail was known by all save himself.

Now of all that high-born company, none was prouder of his ancestry than Sir Gervais, and for this reason he felt the shame of ignorance most sorely of all. Twice had he gone forth in search of fame and recognition, but never had he come across a grail... not to his knowledge, anyway. What most galled him was the thought that he might have seen the Holy Grail, but passed it by unknowingly, and thus lost the credit for finding it. So he confected a cunning stratagem to ferret out the exact nature, function, and shape of a grail so that he might recognize it should he come across one in the course of some future quest. One evening, as all that noble host sat around the Table, Sir Gervais said, in the most offhand tone imaginable, 'Ah... tell me, fellow knights, have you ever considered what you might do with a grail, were there one sitting upon this table at this very moment? I speak not, of course, of the Holy Grail, but rather of your common, everyday sort of grail.'

'Huh? What? A grail? Here? On the table?' asked Sir Bohort, whose father's loin-strength had gone so totally into making his well-muscled body that nothing was left over for his brain.

Immediately did the proud Sir Gervais grow pale with the fear that a grail might be too vasty a thing to be placed upon a table, and that his ignorance was in danger of being revealed. 'Nay, did I say a table?' he asked, laughing at his slip. 'I meant to say a courtyard. Oft and again do men—even men of impeccable lineage—confuse tables with courtyards, for are they not both... ah... things?'

'Yea, but tell me, Sir Gervais,' asked Sir Gawain, hoping himself guilefully to discover just what a grail was, 'why wouldst thou put this grail of thine in a courtyard? And just what wouldst thou do with it, once thou hadst it there?'

Now did Sir Gervais hotly rue that he had introduced the matter and opened himself to accusations of stupidity—if not impiety. 'And why should I not put a grail in a courtyard, brother knight, so long as it be a proper courtyard for the receiving of a grail? Prithee, why art thou so quick to challenge my understanding of the nature of things?'

'Nay, brother of the Table Round, wax not huffy. I seek only to understand how thou intendest to use... or wear... or admire... or perhaps punish?... this grail, once thou hast it in thy courtyard.'

'Use? Wear? Admire? Punish?' asked Sir Gervais, now confused and ashamed, and therefore sore wroth. 'Thinkest thou I be the low-born sort of fellow who must use and wear and punish his grail just because he has it in his courtyard? May not a man of highest parentage and pedigree put a grail into his courtyard without having any such base designs upon it? Challenge me one word further in this matter, sirrah, and thou shalt feel my boot far up thy fud, thou base, French-loving, dung-munching, host-spitting, sheep-foining bastard!'

'...French-loving? French-loving! O-o-oh, now has thou brought thine o'er-bred, chinless face into jeopardy from my steel-gaunted fist, thou scrofulous, leprous, lecherous, stenchy, title-licking, back-stabbing, hag-swiving...'

...Allow me to draw a curtain over this scene before it descends into incivility. No doubt the perceptive reader wonders at Sir Gawain's last epithet and asks why a knight so proud of rank and breeding as Sir Gervais would go about swiving hags, for scant is the joy and meagre the reclaim to be gained from applying one's love-tool to ancient crones.

The explanation of this slight flaw in Sir Gervais's otherwise irreproachable gentility is to be found in the true and instructive tale of Sir Gervais in the Enchanted Forest, wherein the attentive reader will learn how that noble knight earned the title by which history remembers him: Gervais! Swiver of Crones!

Know ye that it was upon a soft and fog-laden morning in autumn that bold Sir Gervais, bedecked in his richest armour, rode forth from Camelot in quest of the Grail, and of such encounters as might add to his reputation and his purse. Nor was it long before he found himself deep within a dark and dire forest where his stallion's hoof made no sound upon a thick mat of leaves as man and mount glid past ghosts of trees that emerged from the mists before, then were swallowed up by the mists behind. Overhanging boughs brushed and hissed upon his helmet, the plumes of which drooped limp with the damp.

Now, Sir Gervais was a brave warrior of lofty blood, so we are obliged to assume that if his eyes darted from side to side, it was only to seek out the adversary, and if he whistled thinly and dryly, it was only to announce his presence to any foe who might dare to face him, and if his palms sweated, it was only because they itched to grasp his sword in combat, and when he suddenly decided to turn his horse and quit that dark, dank, ominous forest, it was only to go in search of yet greater and more dangerous adventure; and surely the yelp that escaped from his throat was a sort of war cry, when he suddenly espied an ancient crone of surpassing laidliness standing beside the path, beckoning with a gnarled finger.

His voice tight in his throat, Sir Gervais addressed the hag, saying, 'How now, beckoning crone of surpassing laidliness, canst direct me out of this forest? I wit thee rare gifted in the craft of telling directions, for one of thine eyes doth scan to the left whilst t'other scans to the right in such wise that their paths do intersect some few inches before thy hooked nose.'

And the crone did cackle with pleasure and turn her face aside modestly. 'Nay, good knight, think not to weaken the barriers of my chastity with cozening praise, for I do perceive that thou hast penetrated the mystery of this enchanted forest.'

'Sayest what?'

'Nay, feign not, shrewd seducer. Well dost thou know that in this enchanted forest all things appear the very opposite of what they are.'

'How's that?'

'Nay, nay, noble knight. Do not pretend ignorance.'

Sir Gervais stood stiff in the saddle, his dignity bristling. 'Thou dost accuse me false, rank hag! Ignorance is no pretence with me! And woe betide the base defamer who claims it so!'

'Be not wroth, good knight. For know ye that even my senses are sometimes bemused, though I have long lived here. Forgetting for a moment the other-seeming enchantment of this place, I thought at first that I was addressing a scrawny beggar astride a pig, his knees scrubbing the muddy track, and his feet dangling behind.'

The proud knight looked about for the person thus limned.

' 'Tis of thee I speak, fair—if ugly-seeming—knight.'

'Art thou plotting to get thy scabby head bashed in, ugly—and ugly-seeming—hag, in the hope that a bashing might work improvement on thine appearance?'

'Nay, stay thy wrath and be informed! What I have described is only thine image as it appears to be, here in a forest where all things do seem the very opposite of what they truly are. Seeing thee ugly, trembling, deformed, puny, and graceless, I know that thou must, in fact, be a brave knight, puissant and fair of visage.'

'Crush-m'-cullions if thou hast not limned me to the last jot!'

'And I have no doubt, brave warrior, that my own grace, my delicacy, and my blushing beauty have, in thine enchanted eyes, taken on some other appearance.'